Came into my life hanging onto her dad’s hand, hopping across the Thrifty Scot Motel parking lot that first uneasy visitation weekend. It was April 1982 and I was just learning Dave’s measure and that of his beloved daughters.
As our lives came together, I watched Amanda grow through an exuberant childhood, the painful uncertainties of almost-teen years, the opening chrysalis of high school and basketball, and on through the misadventures and dicey decisions of college and early teaching. She is, in memory now, the quick creative little kid; the hunched-over, ill-coiffed middle schooler who unfolded into the tall, straight-backed ball player; the hard-drinking young adult; and finally the competent glamorous young wife, art teacher, member of the community.
That quick creative little kid had an edge of chubby, a trusting face, fierce determination, and a spine of coiled steel. She leapt into her dad’s arms and sprung her homemade kangaroo mouse trap with a cat’s reflex. When she cast her fishing line into the North Fork, Amanda launched her whole body over the edge of the raft as I clung to her belt loop.
She deployed tantrums at will, all defiance and bravado in the face of discipline. Who couldn’t see the point of ooey-gooey boyfriend stuff. Who loved her My Little Ponies and drew them often—working hard to master the angles of horse legs in motion. Whose joy and capacity for building and drawing and sawing and painting came early. A potato masher comprised of three chunks of wood for instance. Equally useful for beaning her sister. A wooden shelf complete with a fabric panel for her 4-H pins and ribbons. A little girl who was demoted to wearing blue by her big sister who thought red the cooler color. Who sat restless when her dad applied a curling iron to her bangs and to his fingers. And who loved – positively loved – dresses.
Until she came to us in middle school to live year-around and wanted, for a very short time, to wear cowgirl garb before graduating to basketball uniforms and prom gowns. That awkward, shy middle schooler brought two cats along, but gave her heart and her weekends to the burgeoning herd of prize-winning harlequin rabbits in our garage. I see Amanda ramrod straight, jeans, white shirt, and black ribbon tie standing behind a rabbit she had trained to sit, without so much as wiggling its nose, while a judge inspected. In those years, too, she mastered the most intricate embroidery and tatting her Grandmother Sherfy could teach.
Amanda kept us in stitches. Rebelling against my decision to purchase middle school meal tickets, she insisted that the C. R. Anderson lunch ladies hung a gutted deer in the freezer and hacked off venison slices for main dishes. She loved our antiques, but not so much her grandparents’ 1977 Chevy Malibu station wagon. The car that Dave insisted be her first vehicle because supposedly it couldn’t travel out of town or sustain fatal wounds in the Capital High parking lot. The car that she learned to slide into gear and push silently down the street after she crawled out her bedroom window. And, unbeknownst to him ‘til later, Dave’s hard drive held a variety of notes excusing Amanda from class. She had mastered his distinctive signature.
For her earliest grade school basketball games, Dave and I drove to Columbia Falls – where Amanda, still learning to dribble– would slow down midcourt to wave at her dad. Who never knew whether to wave back or lecture her about concentration. That dynamic remained. By high school, Amanda had the strength and height to play post but not always the intensity that Dave, stomping the bleachers in frustration, craved. Still, basketball gave her good friends and good times and ultimately the scholarships she needed for all five of the colleges she attended. Along with a helping of reality about the benefits of hard work.
Amanda flinched when my health or work captured her dad’s attention. I was undeniably the stricter adult– Captain Less-Fun–no matter how many team lockers I decorated with fuzzy Bruin stickers before a big game. I despaired of the room that lay knee deep in discarded socks and lunch sacks and loose change. I’d have had Amanda trade some summer basketball camps for a taste of real employment. I was inclined to let her finish her own 4-H projects—or not–rather than have Dave ride to her rescue. But Dave set just enough boundaries and played out just enough line to keep her affections and her safety whole. And I watched Amanda make, on balance, wiser and wiser decisions, hone her incredibly sharp mind and wit, and grant me acceptance and laughter. Those summer jobs came soon enough – Brewers’ baseball beer vendor, receptionist, wildland firefighter.
Amanda is now my daughter. Her hugs are deeper and longer than those of anyone else. We share our grief for Dave; our joy in his grandchildren; our worry and wonder over his Land—the North Fork; and the ability to tell each other almost any of our delights and our troubles. I rest easy in her friendship and love – as I think she does in mine.
Amanda was her father’s true companion. She knew his moods, how to persuade him to her requests, when to throw her arms around him. And how to afford him the grace of teasing, of holding him close by letting him go. ©
